


Serious Burns

by baroque_mongoose



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2796164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baroque_mongoose/pseuds/baroque_mongoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a Burns Night dinner at the British Embassy.  Agatha happens to be visiting Gil, so she attends.  It's her very first Burns Night, and it's amazing how... inspiring... she finds it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serious Burns

Some people still occasionally talk as though I represented only England. It is, perhaps, an understandable error, as I am after all an Englishman; but I am the British Ambassador, not the English Ambassador, and I represent all parts of our fair isles. To this end, I have some specialist staff whose duty it is to advise me on matters pertaining to their respective regions, and whose pleasure it is to organise various events at the Embassy relating to these regions.

My Scottish advisor is a Mrs Wishart. She is from Edinburgh, and, although she is very refined and proper herself, I think she is positively disappointed if we do not end up with a few people drinking far more than is good for them at her annual Hogmanay celebrations. She also organises a grand dinner every year for Burns Night, and it is one of these dinners that forms the setting for the events I am about to relate.

On this particular Burns Night, we had an even wider variety of guests than usual. For a start, we had young Prince Marcin of Poland, since he was engaged to marry my eldest daughter Agatha; but even he was not, perhaps, the most noteworthy guest, even though he was the highest-ranking other than Gil. (Gil still insists on styling himself only Baron, as his father did; but since he is a major ruler in his own right, all authorities on protocol agree that he outranks the brother of a king.) No; for on this occasion Agatha Heterodyne happened to be visiting Gil, and therefore she was joining us for her very first Burns Night, along with Dimo, Maxim, Oggie, and an extremely elderly and cranky Krosp. Krosp was designed to live much longer than a normal cat, and this he has done, but sadly he cannot be with us for many more years now. I shall be sorry to learn of his passing; he is abrasive and uncivil, but he is also shrewd, intelligent and very loyal.

Lucilla and I stood welcoming the guests, with Mrs Wishart alongside us. Naturally, it was when Agatha arrived with her retinue that things began to get interesting. Dimo was carrying Krosp on a large cushion, and Krosp gave me a very odd look.

“Wooster...” he began.

“Krosp,” Agatha interrupted swiftly, “that's 'my lord' to you these days.”

“Oh, all right. My lord. Why the hell are you wearing a skirt, my lord?”

“His lordship is wearing the kilt,” Mrs Wishart explained, with frosty Edinburgh politeness. “He always does for Hogmanay and Burns Night.”

“Yeah, well, it's still a skirt,” said Krosp.

“It's very comfortable, Krosp,” I replied, with a smile. “You should try it.”

Oggie looked puzzled. “Iz only vun of it? Do dey pass it round?”

“Ah,” I said. “I think I see your confusion, Oggie. It's a matter of syntax. One talks about wearing a shirt, or a waistcoat, but always, for some reason, _the_ kilt. It doesn't actually mean there is only one kilt. It's like talking about catching the train. One doesn't intend to imply by it that there is only one train.”

“Ho,” said Oggie. “Tenk hyu.” He paused. “Vot iz sin tax?”

“Iz obvious dere iz more dan vun kilt,” said Dimo. “If dey had to pass it round, vot vould dey all be vearing vhen dey didn't haff it? Hyu can't keep a pair of trousers under vun of dose tings. Vell, hy dun tink hyu can.”

“Hy tink it iz very nize,” said Maxim. “Vould be goot for fighting in, in der summer. Do dey make dem in red und purple?”

“ _Hyu_ vant vun?” asked Dimo, incredulously.

“Sure hy do. It got schtyle. Der Earl, he alvays got der schtyle.”

“Und vot if Mamma Gkika picks hyu up by der ankle und turns hyu upside down, like she did dot time vhen...?”

“Den hy can flirt vit her,” said Maxim happily, “because hy can pretend she yust did it zo she could see my drawers.”

“Hyu ought to be ashamed of hyuself,” Dimo growled. “Hyu iz a married Jäger.”

“Oh, Mamma Gkika dun count. She iz an old friend,” Maxim replied.

By this time, Agatha was ushering the Jägers out of the way, so I did not get the chance to try to explain syntax to Oggie, which was possibly just as well from everyone's perspective. One of my staff brought a bar stool, which was placed in the middle of the room, and Krosp was settled down on top of this, cushion and all, as befitted the now very arthritic Emperor of All Cats. He did not lack for conversation. Once people have absorbed the idea of a talking cat in the first place, they soon get used to the fact that he has some really fascinating reminiscences.

Gil, of course, was waiting as near at hand as he decently could in order to intercept Agatha, and this explains why I was able to hear what they were saying.

“I can't believe this is really your first Burns Night,” said Gil. “Ardsley does this every year... well, he'd be the first to tell you he doesn't, Mrs Wishart does, but obviously it's run under his auspices and with his full support and encouragement. And it's always such a good bash. Mind you, they do things well here. The British know how to entertain.”

Agatha grinned. “I think you mean Ardsley does. Who's Mrs Wishart?”

“She's a sort of Scottish sub-ambassador. She's the lady standing next to Ardsley there, with the pearls. She _always_ wears pearls, no matter what the event. I think she considers that anything glittery is slightly vulgar. She's that sort of person.”

“Oh my,” said Agatha, amused. “Then I had better mind my Ps and Qs.” She took a sidelong glance at my kilt. “H'mm. Why aren't you wearing one of those things, Gil?”

Gil looked startled. “I'm not Scottish. Well, neither is Ardsley, but at least he is British.”

“I never knew he had such nice calves. But I bet yours are good, too.”

“Er,” said Gil. I could hardly blame him. I am not quite sure which of us was more embarrassed at that instant.

“Maybe next time?” Agatha suggested, sweetly.

“Um. Maybe,” said Gil. That was it. He was lost. I knew very well that if she happened to be around at the next Burns Night celebration, Gil would be arrayed in full Highland dress for it.

“So,” said Agatha, no doubt very well aware of her victory, “what goes on at these things? How exactly is Burns Night celebrated? Do people... recite, or sing, or anything like that?”

“Yes, there'll be some of that after dinner,” Gil replied, “and you'll probably find that quite entertaining, because Burns, as you may know, wrote in dialect, and you know how conscientious Ardsley is. That means we're all going to get little booklets handed round with the poems inside them, together with explanatory notes for the dumbfounded and translations into all relevant languages. I'm pretty sure Ardsley writes those himself. The Scottish contingent here does all the actual reciting, but Mrs Wishart always does the lion's share of it, and I personally find something quite amusing about that. I'm quite sure Burns didn't have an Edinburgh accent you could polish crystal with.”

“I must admit, I can't tell one Scottish accent from another,” said Agatha. “In fact, I can hardly tell a Scottish accent from an Irish or Welsh one. I don't hear them often enough.”

“Ah, well, Ardsley always invites me to anything that's going on down here, and usually I'm able to attend, so I've got quite a good handle on British accents of all descriptions these days,” Gil explained. “Anyway, that's the reciting. Oh, and do keep your booklet, because the translations in there are always a thing of beauty. That's why I'm so sure they're Ardsley's own, though there's never anything to say who did them. They all rhyme and scan. But before we get to that, there's the dinner. There is always haggis. It's a tradition.”

“I've heard of haggis,” said Agatha, “but I'm not entirely sure what it is.”

“It's a minced meat dish,” replied Gil, which was true as far as it went. “It's got... I'm not sure. Oatmeal in it, certainly, and various herbs and things, but beyond that I don't know. It's very nice, whatever's in it. And there's neeps...”

“Neeps?”

“Well, root vegetables, but it's traditional to call them neeps. Oh, and it's always piped in. That's half the fun of it.”

“It is? Oh, wow, Gil!”

Now this was gratifying. I had not expected quite so much enthusiasm. I personally like the bagpipes, but I am very well aware that for some people they can be, shall we say, an acquired taste. I had not been certain whether or not she had heard them before, and I had even considered giving her a gentle indication of what to expect; but clearly she had, and she was keen.

At this point, I overheard the Parisian Ambassador's wife calling him _un espèce d'ivrogne_ , which seemed to be a very good time indeed to go and stage a diplomatic intervention. I have no idea why it is so much worse in French to call someone a type of drunkard, rather than merely a drunkard; but it is, and therefore the Parisian Ambassador would have to be temporarily separated from either his wife or his wine glass, depending on his actual state. It turned out that she did, in fact, have a fair point. He was not quite three sheets to the wind yet, but I definitely pegged him somewhere in the region of a couple of pillowcases and a fairly substantial feather bolster.

“Ah, M d'Auverne,” I said. “I don't believe you have yet met our Mrs Wishart. And Mme d'Auverne, I am charmed to meet you.” I bowed.

“Oh!” she said. “I think this is not the first time we have met, my lord.”

“I did study in Paris,” I replied, a little surprised. “But that was thirty years ago now, and I am sure you are not old enough to recall me, Madame.”

She dimpled. “You are very courteous, my lord.” I hoped I was, but in this case I was certainly not affecting to think she was younger than she must actually have been; I really did. “I know who you are now. You were Gil Holzfäller's friend.”

“Ah,” I said. “Indeed.” I sincerely hoped that she was not one of Gil's old flames, or things were liable to turn exceedingly undiplomatic with disturbing rapidity.

“Yes,” she continued. “You were just plain Mr Wooster then. I never found out your first name. But you still have the same lovely manners.” She paused. “I'm sure you won't remember me at all. I was Yvette L'Hirondelle.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “I know the name, but I don't think we crossed paths very often. Let me see, now... you were studying psychology?”

“Quite right! What a memory you have, my lord! I am afraid I can't recall in the slightest what you were studying.”

“Modern languages,” I replied. “But, really, I am very surprised that you remember me at all.”

“Ah, well, I once ended up in an argument with Herr Holzfäller when he was drunk, and you came and intervened; and it was just as well you did, or I should have sat up all night whether I liked it or not, because he would not stop talking. I was grateful to you for that.”

Herr Holzfäller, rather than Gil; almost certainly not an old flame, then. I relaxed. “Well, Madame,” I said, with a smile, “you will find him far less drunk and argumentative these days. There he is, talking to Lady Heterodyne over there; and you are, I think, probably the last person to learn that his name is actually Wulfenbach.”

“ _Mon Dieu!_ ” She laughed. “Well, a pretty dance he led all of us! Did he tell you his secret? I know you were good friends.”

“Not till much later,” I replied, smiling back. “And we are still good friends, which is, of course, why he is here.”

“I must go and speak to him, and see if he remembers me. Excuse me, my lord.”

As soon as I was sure she was out of earshot, I said to M d'Auverne, “Monsieur, there will be wine with the meal, and afterwards, of course, there will be Scotch whisky. Have you tried that before?”

“I have not, my lord; I am more of a gin person, myself,” he replied.

“Well, we have the best we can obtain, so I think you will not be disappointed. But it is quite as strong as gin, so you may wish to pace yourself somewhat.”

“Are you saying I am drunk, my lord?” he demanded.

“You are, unfortunately, heading in that direction,” I replied. “Hence the friendly warning. If you wish to get drunk, you are perfectly at liberty to do so, but I would ask you not to do it until dinner is over. I'm sure you understand. Quite apart from any other considerations, if you are already drunk, you will not appreciate the fine flavour of the whisky.”

“Ah. Well, then, if you put it like that, I'll just finish what I have here, my lord.”

I steered him over to meet Mrs Wishart, who was quite capable of discreetly ensuring that he kept his word. She is teetotal herself, a fact which, I am sure, will surprise nobody.

Fortunately, it was not too long before the dinner gong was struck, and we all departed in due order to the dining hall. “Where are the pipes?” asked Agatha, puzzled. (This was, of course, Agatha Heterodyne, not my daughter.)

“They'll be along very soon,” I promised. “They don't come in until the haggis does.”

In the meantime, the appetiser arrived, and I noticed that Agatha was going into spark mode. This does not always bode well at a formal meal. She ate her iced melon absently, then started scribbling calculations and diagrams on her napkin. I was afraid she was going to do the same on the tablecloth when she ran out of napkin, but in fact, as it turned out, there was an even more convenient white surface to hand: my cuff. I still wear wide double-fastened detachable cuffs, even though the narrower ones are becoming more fashionable these days. I will admit that I did blink when she started scribbling on it, but I am not unused to spark fugues. I simply removed the stud and the cufflink and handed it over, then asked one of the waiters to send someone up for a fresh pair of cuffs, oh, and some paper for Lady Heterodyne, please, thank you.

While we were waiting, she ran out of cuff. Without a word, I passed her the other one. I really hoped the paper would arrive before I also had to give her my collar.

Thankfully, it did. By this time, the small plates were being cleared away and the soup was arriving, and I could hear Krosp from further down the table, grumbling that the Jägers were eating like... well, Jägers. It is true, indeed, that Mrs Wishart told me afterwards that she had never seen a slice of melon eaten like that before; but it is probably also fair to say that Ognian is not used to melon, and one must make due allowance for that.

Normally, Gil would have been looking at Agatha's scribbles and probably going into spark mode himself; but Mme d'Auverne was not giving him a chance. She was keeping him talking very animatedly about old times while her husband chatted rather uncomfortably with the Prince, who happened to be sitting close to them. Prince Marcin was known to be very fond of motoring, and M d'Auverne shared this enthusiasm; but, since M d'Auverne spoke no Polish and Prince Marcin spoke only rather halting French, the conversation was not going as well as it might have done. And, all the while, the sheets of paper were piling up beside Agatha.

I would never normally dream of prodding anyone, but the ordinary rules of politeness simply do not work on someone who is sparking flat out. I prodded Agatha, very gently.

“Your soup is getting cold,” I reminded her.

“Uh,” she said. “Hold this.” She produced a spanner from somewhere and pushed it into my hand.

“I'll, er, put it in my sporran,” I said. “I'm just eating my soup.”

“All right. Now, if you'd just pass me that candelabra...”

“I'm afraid that will not be possible,” I replied, gently but firmly. “It is in use at this moment.”

“But I need to build a working model!”

“Not at this precise minute,” I replied. “Just now, what you really need to do is eat your soup.” It was, I realised, very much like talking to a hyperintelligent toddler, except that Agatha probably wouldn't throw her soup on the floor if she got annoyed.

“Oh, but wait!” Her eyes suddenly seemed much greener than usual. “Yes. Yes, I've got it. It would make things so much easier if I used a von Fahrrad transformation and then simply reversed it at the exit point. That way, it could be made very discreet and elegant.” She grabbed my wrist again, and I thought I was doing rather well to interpose a piece of paper between her pen and my cuff before the pen made contact. I do have plenty of cuffs, but it is the principle of the thing. They would complain at the laundry.

I gave up, carefully extracted my hand, and finished my soup. Agatha's, I am sorry to say, remained untouched; and this was a pity, for it was excellent soup. There was no fish course, since there is only so much a person can eat, and haggis is very filling. Therefore, the haggis was due to arrive next.

It was, of course, several haggises, since there were so many people present. This was just as well, since we had a dozen pipers, all skirling away for all they were worth. It was a most impressive procession.

Agatha stared. “Is that the haggis?” she asked.

“Yes, indeed. Well, haggises,” I replied.

“But... Gil said...” She paused. “Oh!”

“What?” I enquired.

“Gil said it was going to be piped in. I didn't realise he meant _that_ sort of piped. I thought he meant, you know, like hot water.” She sighed. “So I was trying to work out how you were doing it, and that got me inventing the most efficient machine I could think of for piping minced meat with oatmeal in it from the kitchens to the table. Like you do.”

“Ah,” I said. It seemed to be the only possible response.

“But, actually,” she continued, brightening, “that would be pretty useful, so if you like I'll get Gil to lend me his laboratory so I can build one, and then we can install it down here and you can have anything you like piped from the kitchens, what do you think, Ardsley?”

“Um,” I said.

“You know, like if you wanted extra custard on your apple crumble or something, you'd just have to yank the right lever and it'd arrive.” She grinned manically. “I am so going to have to build one at Castle Heterodyne.”

I did not remind Agatha that I have not been able to eat desserts for several years now. That was a mere side issue. Whatever it dispensed, the idea of such a machine filled me with nothing but a vague, formless dread. There were far too many things that could potentially go wrong; and, although I have spent most of my life dealing with things that have gone wrong and preventing other things from doing so, the idea of anything going wrong over meals is still enough to make me quail a little.

“That's a very kind and generous offer, Agatha,” I replied, “but I'm afraid the domestic staff wouldn't wear it. I think they would consider it something of a slight. They're not minions, you understand.”

“Ah. Yes, I see what you mean,” she conceded. “Pity.” She thought for a moment. “I suppose Agatha and Marcin wouldn't like one for a wedding present, would they?”

“I imagine that Polish cuisine tends to have a slightly different set of physical properties,” I replied. Though I say it myself, I was rather proud of that one.

“Ah, yes, good point. And, speaking of physical properties, do you know how easily one could weaponise a haggis?”

Clearly, she had not finished sparking, and it was going to be one of _those_ meals. I took the precaution of ordering another pad of notepaper.

However, we survived it without any actual damage to the fixtures and fittings; it was true that, by the end of the meal, Agatha had invented a steam-powered ballistic haggis-hurler, a special helmet for sobering people up quickly and a mechanical toothpick for arthritic cats, but at least it was all still on paper, and somewhere in among all that she had managed to discover that she actually liked haggis. The helmet, it was true, might have been useful for M d'Auverne, who was by now drinking whisky with the Jägers. This is probably not a good idea even if one is completely sober to start with, since a Jäger has an extremely high alcohol tolerance. On the one hand, M d'Auverne looked as though he might slide under the table at any moment; on the other hand, he was sitting next to Maxim, who would have no problem at all stopping him with one hand if he was so minded.

After the meal, we had the usual poetry recital, in the middle of which Gil embarrassed me considerably by pointing out that nobody had been given credit for the translations in the booklet, therefore presumably I had done them myself and should stand up and take a bow along with the people who were reciting. I had to admit that they were, indeed, mine, which got me a round of applause far greater than I deserved. Everyone seems to think poetry translation is so difficult, but, really, it is only a matter of shuffling words into place until they work, rather like doing a puzzle; and one generally has quite a large number of words from which to choose.

Then there was dancing, which, of course, featured quite a number of jigs and reels. Agatha danced with Gil for most of the evening, and I overheard her asking if she could borrow his laboratory. The state of mind he was in, I suspect he would quite happily have lent her the whole of Castle Wulfenbach if she had asked. I wondered if he had yet seen her notes. At about a quarter past ten, Dimo, at the request of Mme d'Auverne, took M d'Auverne back to the Parisian Embassy, which he did by simply slinging that gentleman over his shoulder like a sack with no regard at all to his ambassadorial dignity. I was a little amused, but then I think I was allowed to be, since Dimo has done exactly the same thing to me in my time; admittedly I was not drunk, but I did need to get from A to B, or, more precisely, as far away from A as possible, in as little time as I could.

In the afternoon of the following day, I went up to see Gil, who was looking a little wild-eyed. “Ardsley,” he said, “you will never believe what Agatha has installed in my main kitchen.”

“Would it be, by any chance, a device for piping various types of food from there to your table?” I enquired.

“How the hell did you know that?”

“She was inventing it last night over dinner. She wrote some of her notes on a pair of my cuffs. In fact, if she's finished with them, I'd quite like to retrieve them while I'm here.”

“Oh, they were yours?” said Gil. “I thought they probably must be, because of the style, but I wasn't totally sure. No, I'll get them washed for you first; she's my guest, so it's the least I can do.”

“Well, thank you very kindly,” I replied. “Has she also built any of the other devices she invented last night?”

“Not yet, but she's still in there working,” said Gil. “She does seem to have been unusually inspired by Robert Burns.”

“I'm not entirely sure it was Burns himself,” I replied. “I think it may have been the haggis. Or, just possibly, the thought of you wearing the kilt.”

Gil harrumphed. “Yes, well... she has got a very persuasive way about her when she wants. You, er, wouldn't like to tell me where you got yours, would you?”

“I ordered it from a firm Mrs Wishart knows in Edinburgh. I'll get her to send you up the address. I should warn you that there are quite a lot of different tartans, and people can get somewhat possessive about them, but nobody will object if you wear Royal Stewart, which is the tartan I was wearing last night.”

“H'mm. I'm not sure red suits me quite as well as it does you, but thank you for that. I'm more of a blue and green man.”

“I think you could wear Black Watch,” I said. “I believe that's another one which is, as it were, common ground. But they'll know at the shop.”

“I'll ask them. And, by the way, I should have said so before, but that was an excellent bash. Thank you.”

“You're very welcome, and it's really Mrs Wishart you need to thank; but I'll tell her for you,” I said. After a moment or two, I added, “So... Agatha's device. How well does it work?”

“Well, at least one of us is going to have to make a few adjustments,” Gil replied darkly. “You see, the problem is, it works _too_ well. I tried to get an extra dollop of cream out of it at lunchtime, and to cut a long story short I had to go and change my clothes.”

“She does put a great deal of enthusiasm into everything she builds,” I observed.

“Yes,” said Gil, rolling his eyes. “Ardsley, you're a sensible man. Have you any idea why, after all these years, I am still madly in love with a woman who builds dangerous devices?”

“I should think,” I replied, “that it's probably... because she builds dangerous devices.”

Gil considered this.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Nobody builds dangerous devices quite like Agatha.”


End file.
